


i’m not supposed to be here

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, kinda self projecting, no beta we die like men, this is so fucking hard to do on mobile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 14:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Peter Parker is not, under any circumstances, okay.





	i’m not supposed to be here

The first time Peter tore his arms open was the night of Uncle Ben’s death. He promised himself, as he watched his blood swirl down the sink drain, futilely attempting to ignore the sound of Aunt May’s sobbing from her bedroom (_it used to be Uncle Ben’s too, but he’s gone now, forever, he’s gone gone gone gone—)_, that he would never, ever do something like this again. Peter _ knew _ this wasn’t right; he knew this was bad and wrong and couldn’t possibly end well, but… but Uncle Ben _ died _ and it was Peter’s fault so he deserved it. Just this once. 

The switchblade he’d used (_Peter remembered his thirteenth birthday when Uncle Ben had given it to him. “For protection,” he’d said as he placed it in Peter’s hand, smiling) _was completely drenched in blood and Peter felt tears pouring down his face as he rinsed and scrubbed it all away. By the time the sink, the blade, and his face were clean, his wrists were healed, and the only evidence that remained were thin, faint scars on his wrists that Peter hoped would be gone by morning. 

(When Peter woke up the next day, the scars were gone, and he vowed to forget about it, stashing the switchblade in a dark corner of his closet. Peter knew his demeanor was still slightly off and that he wasn’t completely acting like his usual self, but he also knew that Aunt May would think Ben’s death was the only cause of this, and she’d never suspect anything more. So he smiled as much as he could, and hugged her as hard as he could, and pretended he couldn’t feel his wrists itching as they healed and screaming as they begged him to do it again.)

•  


The second time Peter sliced his wrists apart was years later, when Ned chose, for the first time, to sit with someone other than Peter. Ever since the beginning of the two’s friendship, Peter and Ned had always opted to stick together, especially in school where they were people like Flash roaming the halls. But on Monday morning, when Peter walked into school, Ned was nowhere to be found. 

He didn’t meet Peter at his locker or on the way to class, but he walked into each classroom only seconds before the bell rang. He flashed quick, fake smiles and rushed waves at Peter before settling into his seat and never glancing towards him again. Neither did he wait after class for Peter or even attempt to meet up with him in the halls. MJ was still around (when she wanted to be), trying in her own way to cheer him up and distract him with her lighthearted and sophisticated insults, but it just wasn’t the same because _ she wasn’t Ned_. 

It was only when Peter saw Ned during lunch time sitting with someone else (the two were widely gesturing and laughing and never looking Peter’s way) that he finally accepted what Ned had been not-so-subtly hinting at throughout the day: he was tired of Peter. Ned was tired of Peter being his only friend, tired of hanging out with an absolute loser, tired of spending his time with someone so _ useless _ and _ pathetic. _

And yeah, Peter’s also Spider-Man, but Ned probably knew that he could have a couple days (maybe even years) without stupid Penis Parker, but Spider-Man would still treat him like a friend. 

Peter didn’t bother eating lunch that day, throwing out his squashed ham sandwich on his way to the school bathrooms. He stuffed himself into a stall, ripped one of the ugly, disgusting, jagged tiles from the floor, and proceeded to cut and cut and _ cut _, holding his arm over the toilet bowl as streams of blood flowed down his wrist into the water below. 

(The next day, Ned met him at his locker and they talked about LEGOs and chemistry homework and Star Wars and other normal Peter-and-Ned things. It was almost too easy for Peter to pretend that everything was okay, that he hadn’t cried himself to sleep the night before, and that he couldn’t feel the sting of the re-opened and re-re-opened wounds scattered across his forearms every time his sleeves brushed his skin. _ No more, _Peter told himself, but he knew he was lying.)

•  


The third and last time Peter tore into his skin was the day nothing (and everything) happened. It was Sunday and he was staying at the compound—Aunt May was out of town, visiting distant relatives, and Ned and his family were on vacation at some sort of tropical island, so Aunt May asked Mr. Stark to take care of Peter for the next week. And here he was, sitting on the floor of his pristine, impersonal, Stark-made bedroom, wishing he wasn’t so utterly _ lonely_. 

Even with the majority of his family dead or otherwise out of the picture, Peter was usually with someone at all times, whether that be Aunt May or Ned or a group of strangers on the train, unless he wanted to be by himself. But now they were both gone and Peter was already starting to develop a dangerous habit of doing _ bad things _to himself when no one else was around. 

So it wasn’t at all surprising to Peter when his thoughts began spiraling (_ what if aunt may leaves because she hates me because I’m too much work and I cause trouble and I make her worry and I always do the wrong thing and what if Ned leaves me _ again _ because I’m _ useless _ and annoying and not _ enough _ i’m never enough never enough neverenoughenoughenough—) _ and he suddenly found himself in the bathroom, a razor blade in his palm (_Mr. Stark must’ve put it in the bathroom for him) _, and blood spilling down his forearm, filling up the large sink alarmingly fast. 

Peter was so lost within himself, watching the blood slowly drain away (even as the cuts on his wrists continued to leak), that he couldn’t hear FRIDAY talking to him, genuine concern lacing her usually emotionless voice. He couldn’t hear the A.I. say that she was calling Mr. Stark. He couldn’t hear Mr. Stark stumbling frantically into the bathroom, halting at the sight of Peter’s bloodied arms. 

Peter was so lost that he didn’t notice Mr. Stark’s presence until strong arms wrapped around him and the razor blade was suddenly gone and there were tears drying on his cheeks, his face buried in a familiar, comforting chest, the smell of sulfur and motor oil settling around him like a blanket. 

They stayed like that, crying together, for nearly an hour before Peter fell asleep. Then Tony carried him into the living room and laid him on the couch, sitting beside Peter and running his fingers through the boy’s hair. Then he called May and Pepper and told them what he saw, what Peter had done, trying to ignore how his chest tightened with the words and how even more tears made their way down his face.

They talked for over an hour, during which Peter remained asleep, and by the time the call was over they knew that Peter was definitely not okay, but he would be, eventually, with time and care and a whole lot of love. 

**Author's Note:**

> lol if you can’t tell i have depression. kudos and comments are much appreciated (and may perhaps fuel a sequel. perhaps). but anyway if you’re reading this i want you to take care of yourself and drink some water, eat some food, worship satan, take your meds, nap a bit or something. larb yourself. ❤️


End file.
